


Two Sons of Adam

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was twenty years old and barely conscious the first time he leaned over and kissed his brother on the mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Sons of Adam

He was twenty years old and barely conscious the first time he leaned over and kissed his brother on the mouth.

Nothing came of it; they were so covered in sweat and blood that they barely even connected before Dean pulled back, shut his mouth, rolled over, slept.

Sammy didn’t understand. Dean thought he barely knew it either, this thing inside him that burned and festered and did not –  _would not_  ­­–die. He knew it as a monster before he even really acknowledged it at all, something dark inside him that murmured and hissed; furious. Painful. Strong.

The guiltiest secret of them all, though he had a collection as it was; it was bigger, more shameful than Mom, than Dad, than what they did ‘for a living’. The secret that he loved his brother, loved him hopelessly, endlessly, and that love made him something he could barely begin to utter.

Sam reached for  _him;_ caught his eye when they were battered and bruised in a motel bathroom, Sam only seventeen, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, its plastic creaking beneath his weight as Dean sanitised the scratches on his arms. Dad would be gone a few days. He was always gone.

Sam looked down at his arm and there was a moment of silence; a strange, stretched out thing that Dean couldn’t laugh through. And  _Sam_  reached for  _him;_ touched his jaw and leaned down as he brought him close, kissed his chin, then his mouth, like a compulsion or a tic, lips stuttering, hands trembling at his jaw.

When he pulled away, both their faces were wet. Dean didn’t know if it was from both of them, or just himself.

“What are we doing?” He’d whispered, the words almost on Dean’s lips, and yet so quiet that he still barely heard them. Dean shook his head.

He said, “Sammy.” But nothing else. He closed his eyes. Pulled away.

No word was big enough to fill what he felt; what clung jealously to his skin, what hissed on his ribs when he stared at the opposite bed in the dark, so many nights in a row, hands clenched around his pillows,  _willing_ this thing to go away, to be gone, to leave him in  _peace._ To stop running his dreams ragged, sweating, a strange, almost-fantasy of guilty sex, and at the same time, a killing.

Alastair had taunted him about it in the pit. Had known. “What would Daddy say?” he murmured at Dean’s ear in a pantomime of a shocked whisper, demon’s eyes slit. “Thou shalt not.”, singsong. “My, my, my. They told me about Dean Winchester, daddy’s boy; Dean Winchester, poor afflicted little Dean,” he grinned against the side of Dean’s head as he stood, stock-still, in whatever red space Alastair had chosen for the day. “Just as much bruised as bruiser.” His voice was a serpent’s hiss. “They neglected to mention  _this.”_ The smile was audible, raw in the red darkness, pressed to his neck so hard he could feel the ragged teeth move, Alastair’s jaw click, insect-like. “Your own  _brother.”_ He whispered, and the words spat out of Dean’s mouth like vomit, crawled from between his teeth despite his best intentions.

“I didn’t.” he gritted out, willing himself to be silent, and failing. “I wouldn’t.”

“But you  _wanted_  to.” The demon laughed, saying aloud what Dean had said to himself for the last twenty years, in silence, in shame. “It’s pretty much the same thing.”

Back on earth, back and safe,  _new,_ it wasn’t gone. It was not replaced by visions of hell; by torture, by guilt, by angelic duty. It wasn’t changed by his time away, just as it had not faded when his brother left him. Dean had felt so  _betrayed_ – and yet he’d loved him. Still.

Still dreamed.

That first night back from the Pit he lay in a bed opposite his brother’s for the first time in forty years.

After all this, the monster – the real disease, the curse in his blood, the poison that coursed straight through him - ran along sinew through to bone, coloured his insides like venom  - In all this, the enemy was Love. Thick and viscous, sinful and soft, a call like heaven in his dreams, sitting on his flesh in the quiet.

They did not kiss again; Sam kept his distance but for weary smiles across tables; infrequent, brotherly touches. There was a line and they had crossed it, and however hard Dean tried to pull back – pull across, pull away, be safe, sinless, _normal_ –he found that he could not.

But Sammy could. And it was kinder, much kinder, to let him.

The last kiss was at thirty, too old for childish play. His brother drunk and wailing, missing him before he’d even left. His brother, pulling on his shoulders, pulling him close and warm, smelling like home, like  _everything._ He’d forgotten how it felt until then; the strange creature he was; the thing that lived inside him sometimes slept. That love, so vicious it tore him apart, threw him to death, over and over. The love that breathed in his stomach the nights when they were children, when he clung to himself and tried so  _hard_ to will it away.

Sam kissed the corner of his mouth and cried. He  _always_ cried when he kissed him,  _always,_ and maybe it was the saddest thing that they did; try to fit physically together, try this thing so they could never be separated.

Sam kissed him with an open mouth and said “I can’t do this alone.” Voice so broken and honest that Dean almost kissed him back; but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Would never.

“Yes you can.” He told him. At a loss for bigger, wider words.

It was the monster that never died, and the longer it lived inside him - the longer it tore him apart - the less Dean even wanted it to go. 


End file.
